PART ONE
LONDON, SUMMER 1878WHERE THINGS COME FROM
Tom walks onto the platform. No, he thinks, I ascend the podium. I am The Speaker. His notes dampen in his fingers; well, it is warm in here. Silence spreads like smoke through his audience, faces turn. He takes a breath, offers a reassuring smile over the lectern, and begins.
He knows these audiences. It is where he himself began, slipping into the gallery of the Workersā Education Society Hall in Harrogate for the evening lecture series, sitting among men whose hands told their trades. Thick fingers calloused and scarred, engrained with iron or brick dust or oil, the minerals that fuel the Empire making their way through layers of skin and into the blood of Englandās working men. Aye lad, they said, sit and hear if you will, just soās youāre quiet, start young and youāll make something of yourself yet. It was his motherās greatest, perhaps sole, ambition, that he should make something of himself, and here he is. The Speaker.
Later, he will give them the geometry, the trigonometry, the calculation of the reflection and refraction of light. At the beginning, it is not how but why. Because, he says, lighthouses are the beacons of progress. Lighthouses illuminate the advance of civilisations. Like any form of civil engineering, lighthouses allow those who build and maintain them to save the lives of others or to walk the world with deaths on their consciences, but that is not really what they are for, not why governments spend thousands of pounds. Sailorsā lives are important but you who work in the mills and factories, who spend your lives in this city, know that history is not made by the lives and deaths of individuals. Lighthouses are important because without them, there cannot be intercontinental trade. Because only explorers will chance a ship approaching an unknown coast after nightfall or in fog; no cargo captain in his right mind would hazard such a thing. The tea you drink, he tells his audience, the calico your wives wear, the raisins in your pudding, come to us across the seas by grace of lighthouses. Where there are no lighthouses, there are no ships, and where there are no ships, there is no trade. It follows that where there are no lighthouses there may be great resources untapped and much wealth to be made and shared. Who knows what riches lie behind unlit harbours, behind sandbars and cliffs, down inlets where darkness and fog have rested unbroken since the beginning of the world? Make no mistake, gentlemen, our knowledge of the world, our conversations with those in far places, begin with the building of lighthouses.
Ah, he has them now. They are city-dwellers, men whose lives pass in the shadows of buildings, whose lungs are silted with coalsmoke, and few will ever cross the sea. But they know their river and the great ships creeping up it on the tide; they know the sharp scent of new calico and the musky sweetness of a dried raisin or fig. They know where things come from. Now we can talk about how.
He finishes. There is applause. This, always, is the point at which he feels foolish: what is a man supposed to do with his face, with his hands, while a hundred other men face him and clap? He smiles and bows, or at least, ducks his head. A different kind of man would have practised before the mirror. He ducks again and goes down the three steps to the main body of the hall. Descends the podium.
The boy has been waiting for him outside the door, apparently oblivious to the rain beginning to fall. Tom, still warm as if he has been rowing or running, raises his face to the wet wind. A posh boy, you can tell from his clothes and something about the way he stands, about the angle of shoulders and neck, but all boys want to run away to sea.
āExcuse me, Mr. Cavendish? Could you spare me a moment? Your lecture was fascinating, sir.ā
Fascinating. No, not from around here, nor anywhere Tomās been.
āI am glad you enjoyed it,ā he says.
The boy nods. āIām interested in the lenses.ā
āGo on.ā
He has underestimated the boy. Of course he wants to sail the high seas and build towers that will shine out across the waves for years to come, but he has also been learning, somewhere, from someone, about the latest experiments, the new kinds of glass. Tom finds himself leaning against the wall, waving his notes around, forgetting his thirst and the rain on his wool coat. Would you, says the boy, do you think you might possibly, I mean, would you consider maybe coming to dinner, at my house?
ROCKS AT SEA
Ally tips her rocking chair forwards, plants her feet on the pale carpet, leafs back through the pages she has just scanned. She cannot find the chapter she remembers. On the ward they have a fever patient causing concern, and she has a hunch that the fever is incidental to the real problem, that the tremors are not rigor but some disorder of the motor functions. She was sure there was something in Hansonās Disorders of the Nervous System. Here, perhaps.
There are footsteps coming up the stairs, someone faster and heavier than Fanny, and then a pause. She puts down her book and goes to the door.
āGeorge?ā
āCousin Ally. Are you very busy?ā He looks uncomfortable, as if his collar pinches. She canāt remember the last time he came up here to find her. Some concern about his health, or the changes of adolescence? He is, after all, well into the awkward age.
She smiles at him and holds the door open. āNot so very busy. Come in?ā
He nods, comes to a standstill in the middle of the rug, suddenly bulkier and darker among the embroidered whitenesses of her room, a figure in oils superimposed on a watercolour interior. She pulls forward the bow-legged tapestry stool from her dressing table and sits on it.
āHave the rocker. Is something troubling you, George?ā
The rocker tips him backward. Heās begun to sit like a man, legs thrown wide as if his manhood requires a seat of its own. She remembers how he used to leap into the air from the garden wall, from inside the carriage and from far too far up the stairs, confiding himself to the air like a gull. If she were a painter, she would have tried to paint him so, in that moment of rising, before the fall begins.
Frowning, he rolls the edging of a cushion-cover between his fingers. āI went to a lecture. Three lectures.ā
She nods, waits. Lectures on prostitution? On spiritualism? There are flyers, she recalls, advertising talks about gold-mining in Australia, and George is just the person, just the age, to be seized by the idea of a long voyage and a treasure-trove under a hot sun.
He looks up. āAbout engineering. Lighthouses. He, the lecturer, he works for the Penvenicks.ā
Not, then, a discussion of physiology or the joys of married love. āThe Penvenicks?ā
āItās a Cornish firm. They build lighthouses. Richard Penvenick used to work for the Stevensons.ā
Her gaze wanders towards her medical book.
āAnd Richard Penvenick gave the lecture?ā
He looks shocked, as if sheās asked if St Peter gave last Sundayās sermon. She has not been to church for some weeks.
āOh, no. Not himself. No, an assistant. Heās called Tom Cavendish. He worked on the Wolf Rock!ā
āThe Wolf Rock?ā
He nods, smiling, as if at the mention of some Oriental paradise of silk-clad harems and the whisper of scented trees.
āItās a rock off the Scilly Isles. Thousandsāwell, hundredsāof ships wrecked there. Some of them had come all the way from Australia, all those weeks, just to smash at the very entrance to the Channel.ā
Bodies washing on the waves, hair floating out from drowned heads. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Her sister May. She shivers.
āOh my word, Cousin Ally, I forgot. I mean, not forgot, of course. Iām so sorry.ā
He squirms, five years younger than when he sat down.
āNever mind, George. You didnāt know her well. Keep telling me about the lecture.ā
She wants to say that itās what my sister would have wanted, for your life to unroll as if she had never been, but she doesnāt know. There was no reason to discuss forgetting. And what May might or might not have wanted is now quite irrelevant.
He swallows. āAll right. Sorry. Anyway, so they built a lighthouse. The Stevensons. And Tom Cavendish worked on it. They were there every day, just out on the rock. They couldnāt even build a cabin, they had to go out every morning, whatever the weather. They shaped every stone, interlocking all the way up. Iāll show you the designs, Aunt Ally, itās an amazing thing. Amazing that you can do it. You canāt imagine the waves it withstands. I meanāsorry.ā
āGo on, George. I know that the sea is still there. Am I to take it that you want to be a lighthouse builder?ā
He looks up, older again. āItās all I want to do. I can do it. Iāve always liked math. And Iām strong, you know that, Iām never ill.ā
āWhat does your Papa say?ā
He looks down. āThatās the thing. He says itās probably just a fad and last year I wanted to join the Navy and anyway I can do it after Cambridge if I still want to. But I canāt. Cambridge would just waste three years and then Iād be too old for an apprenticeship. And I could study engineering here or in Edinburgh or Aberdeen and actually learn something useful. He says Engineering isnāt a scholarly subject and I would regret Cambridge all my life, but I wouldnāt. He means he would have regretted Cambridge if he hadnāt gone. But honestly, Aunt Al, Iāve never been much interested in art, and Iām no good at Latin and all that. I mean, I can get by, but you know Iāve always liked real things more than books. Itās my life, not his.ā
Ally nods. Either of them may be right, as far as she can see, but people learn more from their own mistakes than those of others.
āYou know I canāt interfere between you and your father. What does your Mamma say?ā
His face brightens. āāLet the dear child be happy,ā mostly. Like the ending of a romantic novel.ā
They both smile. Aunt Maryās novel habit has spread into a second bookcase.
He sits forward, coming to the crux. āI just thought, you know what itās like to haveāwell, a calling. Because you wanted to be a doctor when you were young, didnāt you? And that must have been much harder than me wanting to be an engineer.ā
āNot, though, as hard as if Iād wanted to be an engineer,ā she points out. āAnd you know that there are girls who would give everything for the choice between Cambridge and engineering?ā
āI know. Really, Aunt Ally, I do. Anyway, the thing is, I invited him, Tom Cavendish, to dinner. I mean, I asked Mamma first, if I might. And I thought maybe, please, you might join us? I said Thursday because thatās your day off at the moment, isnāt it? I checked with Fanny.ā
Dear George. She remembers herself at fifteen, the strength of her longings and the dread of the god-like powers of the grown-ups. George, plainly, has no idea how much easier these things are for him than for a girl with similar ambitions, but he has, still, his own passion and fear.
āVery well, George. My āday offā is in no way guaranteed, but if I can I will come to your dinner, and meet this Mr. Cavendish, and if he asks me Iāll tell Uncle James that work one loves is a rare gift not to be lightly discarded. Though I think he knows that, I doubt his own parents particularly wished him to become an art dealer. But I ask you someth...